


Mine

by DearLazerBunny



Series: Carry On, Simon [4]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 20:03:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13888158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearLazerBunny/pseuds/DearLazerBunny
Summary: For the first time in years, Agatha finds her legs





	Mine

_My head is on fire, but my legs are fine. After all, they are mine._

-Carry On, FUN.

Agatha

I don’t even realize I’m doing tendus in the sand until the water rolls over my toes, melting the perfect circle back into sloppy wet beach. Curious. I try again. My body falls into perfect alignment unconsciously: toes pointed, knee out, back straight. My back stacks its vertebrae into a rod, lifting me higher into the California sun as I trace another line in the sand. It’s a mindless tick, something I used to do under my desk when’s struggling through homework, or chopping vegetables in the kitchen.

I haven’t thought about ballet in years. Ive tried not to, because it felt too much like resounding failure. One more thing I had to give up because of magic. One more choice that wasn’t mine.

I begged my parents to let me stay on at my old studio. Begged. Cried. Threatened. Negotiated. Nothing. My studies at Watford were “far too important” to be impeded by a fanciful hobby, according to my mother. She always said this with a look of sympathy painted over her perfect features, but even I could tell her thought process was something along the lines of _magic = power, ballet = ???, so magic > ballet (duh)._

Dance class was power to me, though. The discipline it requires, the strength, the elegance. I had all of it in spades, but more importantly; I had the drive. I wanted to be the best ballerina in the company, win competitions, dance for the Royal Ballet. I remember watching the upper years in their pointe shoes and thinking that this was so much bigger than anything I could do with a wand. They were so graceful they floated, skimmed across the room, hair plaited and shiny as they leapt across the floor. It was perfection, no magic required. Even better, it had its own sort of magic.

At Watford, they teach you that words are power. But here, among satin and rosin and sweat and blood, you don’t have to speak, yet can connect to a thousand years of history nonetheless.

I tried to spell my shoes once, but it just made them more clunky and awkward. Dance remains to be the only thing I’ve found that magic cannot touch. It transcends and ends up more flawless than it would with spells or chants.

Dance was always the one place where I was free of magic.

…..

  
Simon

“You’re scowling even more than usual.”

“Hm?” I love the way the worry lines fall of Baz’s face as he refocuses on me. Makes him look much less broody. We’re sitting on opposite sides of the couch, legs tangled in the middle. I’m supposed to be studying but I’m really just watching Baz play on his phone.

“I said-” I poked a socked foot at the hand holding his phone- “you’re scowling at that thing more than usual.”

Baz rolls his eyes and bats my foot away. “I’m not scowling, I’m thinking. You might try it sometime, Snow.”

I move my face into an exaggerated approximation of Baz’s expression- eyes scrunched together, lips in a thin frown- “Totally scowling.”

“Crowley, you’re annoying. Why do I put up with you?” He says it meanly, but he’s also trying to hold back a smile.

“Oh, says the guy who’s hogging my couch in my flat.” I motion for Baz to scoot over and he does, letting me squish between his (bony, ow) shoulder and all the pillows Penny’s insisted should be stacked on the back of the couch. He cocks an eyebrow that says you can’t be comfortable and of course I’m not but I I’m not going to tell him that. I focus on making my wings less cramped until Baz takes pity on me and throws an arm around my back, taking the pressure off the scales. He even scratches my wing a little ‘cause he knows I like that.

I’m suddenly very, very aware that Baz is very, very close.

He kisses me. Or maybe I kiss him. And I sorta forget about the phone for a while.

…..

  
Agatha

Th entrance exam goes well, I think.

Emboldened by that one day on the beach, I quickly track down the nearest ballet studio and sign up for a placement test. I go out and buy my first pair of pointe shoes in years, breaking them in exactly like I used to. I get my feet back into shape, flexing and pointing and turning until my toes bleed. I buy a new leotard. My hair goes up in a ballerina bun for the first time in ages.

When I get the call, I’m almost too nervous to speak.

“Hi, I’m calling on behalf of the California ballet. Am I speaking to Agatha?”

“This is she.”

“Well, Ms. Agatha, we were quite impressed with your audition. I’m happy to say we’ll gladly offer you a spot in our classes, as well as a part-time position in our corps.”

“That’s… fantastic. Thank you so much.”

And the thing is? It really was fantastic. In a way nothing had been for many, many years.   
…..

Simon

“You need a bigger couch.”

“Oh, shove off.” I crane my neck over Baz to see him balancing precariously on the edge of the sofa. “Actually, don’t.”

Note to self: buy bigger couch.

“So what’re you looking at?” I caught a glimpse of a photo before Baz pulled his phone away, brow furrowed.

“Don’t get weird.”

“I’m never weird.” Another eye roll, but he hands me the phone, so, whatever. “It’s… oh.”

It’s Agatha.

But not any Agatha I’ve seen. This Agatha has hair falling out of her bun, and runs in her tights. There’s a bruise blossoming on her right shoulder.

She’s also smiling.

I can feel Baz looking at me, but I can’t pull my eyes away from the photo. “You found Agatha’s instagram?”

“Clearly.”

I scroll down. There aren’t many pictures, but the ones posted are museum worthy (had Agatha been into photography? She never mentioned it to me.) In one her legs are parallel to the floor, arms above her head. She looks like she’s floating. In another, toes pointed in pink satin shoes that just screamed Agatha ( _what’re those called?_ Pointe shoes you uncultured swine. _Thanks Baz._ Welcome, Snow.) to form a single connection between her and the floor, spinning like a top. She looks as though she’s carved from stone. But even though her face is blank theres a heat coming from her that blows away the dead-eyed, resigned Agatha I hold in my memory.

And I can read her well enough to know she’s deliriously happy.

“She looks…” Beautiful. Radiant. Like a stranger. I don’t know what I want to say.

Baz just nods and competently plucks his phone from my fingers, maneuvering the screen away from Agatha’s serene face. “She’s dancing intermittently for the California ballet.”

I vaguely remember something about her doing ballet. Horses, ballet, fancy tennis. Even after she ran all that way she can’t completely let go.

“She looks happy.” Baz says this casually, like he doesn’t know how much of a tailspin it sends me into. Maybe he doesn’t. He probably doesn’t think much about Agatha anymore.

Then again, I don’t much either.

…..

  
Agatha

The end of class always feels like breaking a trance. Like you release this wire you’ve been balancing on and you can breathe easy again.

It’s also awkward to see these graceful people fall from borderline swans into messes of sweaty, gangly college students.

I’ve been here for a term now, so there’s a few people who say bye to me on their way out the door. I’m always the last to leave. I linger over the water cooler and rub life back into each and every toes after peeling off split pointe shoes.

I’m always reluctant to go.

I throw said shoes into my bag and hunt around for my phone. There’s a new text from Jenny asking if we’re still going out tonight ( _yes, c u at home_ ), a missed call from my parents _(remind in one hour)_ , and a few new notifications. I swipe to instagram, mostly to get rid of that red number hovering above the app, but a name catches my eye before I can lock the phone again.

Baz_Pitch has sent you a message.

I scroll through comments of a video someone took of me doing pirouettes impatiently until at the very end:

:) - s.s.

Just one stupid emoticon, and the s.s.- not Baz. Simon. Because isn’t it always Simon.

I ran all this way and I still can’t get far enough.

A thought flies up bitterly in my head: use your words, Simon.

And then I delete the message, zip up my bag, and let the studio door bang closed behind me.

 


End file.
